


Alone

by ProlificNovice



Category: Twilight (Movies), Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-03-26 09:42:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3846187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProlificNovice/pseuds/ProlificNovice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one ever thinks they'll be alone, until they actually are. People think it should be filled with a soft-coloured sombre, a heavy pall of settled-silence because being alone must mean loneliness because they've never known any different. But they're wrong." ExB, Supernatural/Sci-Fi x Sadness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Alone**

_**I like a look of Agony** _ **,  
** _**because I know it's true.** _

.

.

.

No one ever thinks they'll be alone, until they actually are.

People think it should be filled with a soft-coloured sombre, a heavy pall of settled-silence because being alone must mean _loneliness_ because they've never known any different.

But they're wrong.

I had grown up with noise, though not a surplus of it, until time started to pass and the noises – and people – gradually started to dissipate. They floated off like wisps of smoke, were gases suddenly deprived of their oxygen and so they just **vanished**.

At the time I couldn't tell – couldn't tell whether I was just shutting my ears to the vibrations until they became indistinct muffles or if, maybe, they just left all on their own. It could have been a mixture of both. Like a silent error of continuity: they cause each other but they have no original causes themselves.

I could have pin-pointed the origin to my mother's death. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary, strange or mysterious. It was a car crash, and it was nobody's fault but her own. So if I had to blame someone it would have been her, and I couldn't blame her. Neither could Charlie. On the night of her death he'd just stood in the rain – it poured that night, I remember – and I think it was so I wouldn't have seen him crying.

She had been pregnant.

Anyway, the point is I _could_ have named this as the origin source, but I didn't. I was 15 when she had died, but I had been drifting away before that. But I do think that it made me silent, thought I couldn't – wouldn't – ever say she made me alone.

I'd like to think Charlie was alone too, but I don't know. He had lived a whole life with Renee – they had known each other since they were 17 – had always expected her to be there, couldn't fathom what it would be like when she was gone. When the house was so quiet because there wasn't any music to sing to and the oven accumulated dust because nobody baked anymore and the garden was overgrown and an all-over mess because no one cared enough to plant flowers.

So I don't know. But I think his too-much love for her may have shattered him. And now maybe he is lonely instead of just alone.

**_I'm sorry. I wish I could make it better. Tell me what to do._ **

Things I want to say to him but are only ever fragmented thoughts in my head. Because I am not her, and we just don't speak anymore.

But we are fine, like most people. We carry on, like most people. And like most people sometimes are, we are alone.

.

.

.


	2. Lost

** Chapter 1– Lost   
**

**.**

**.**

**.**

I wake up to the usual sound of the front door shutting oh-so quietly.

I crack my eyes open to look at the clock, more out of force of habit than anything else, as this was my every day, and his, for the past two years.

But still – _just after half-six._

I roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling. It's covered in those glow in the dark stars, you know the ones. The kind your parents put up for you when you're small, the kind that seem so magical at first. You wait for their glow to fizzle out but it never does.

Until the day that it **_does_**.

The sun hasn't stopped shining so you wonder why they've stopped glowing. But there doesn't seem to be an answer, so the only solution is to buy more, throw the old ones away.

But you keep them because it just doesn't seem fair.

When they were put up I wanted them all spread apart, so they covered the entirety of the ceiling. Now the empty space between them seems so lost. And I'm sort of regretful I did that, because maybe if they were closer together, they would have shined for longer.

Closing my eyes, I will sleep to come for a few moments more, but I know that it won't. So I get up and I start getting ready. Because it's just another day.

.

.

.

It's raining when I step outside and the air is fresh and chilly; holding a frosty morning dew that coats my skin and hair. School is 30 minutes away by foot, and I always walk. I don't have a car because I can't drive, and I can't drive because I never wanted to learn.

But I don't mind the walk – like it, even. The cold air wakes me up and I like the sound of the rain, and the smell of it on the wet ground. The cars that pass are few and in-between, and the trees create a sort-of canopy overhead, like they're enveloping the whole wide world in their protective grasp.

So I smile as I walk, and I like the silence.

.

.

.

School is the same as always.

Lessons pass and no one talks to me. Sometimes the teachers call on me and I have to repeat myself several times in order for them to hear what I'm saying. I'm not trying to talk quietly, but I just can't seem to help it.

At lunch I find an empty table and stare out of the large window next to me, stare at the swaying trees and the sheets of rain – the droplets falling down the window pane. The hubbub of noise around me blurs, as it always does, and I'm comfortable in my singularity as I take a bite of my sandwich – confident in the fact that no one is looking at me.

But then biology comes . . . and then something changes.

"Other bus," Mr Banner is saying, "other bus, other bus."

_Oh no._

My mind flashes back to last week. _Field trip_ , I think. I had forgotten. I have a tendency to repress bad news. It just filters out as soon as it filters in, without any conscious effort on my part; my subconscious rids it before I even have a chance to register it. So of course I had forgotten. If I hadn't, I would have been ill today, would have missed school.

But I had _bloody forgotten._

I know it will do no good asking to be excused now, and I don't want to draw any attention to myself. So like all the bad things, I try to repress the panic swelling up in my gut, my heart.

Mr Banner says, "Other bus."

And I go.

.

.

.

I try not to look out of the window as the green whizzes past me; feeling the bus moving via the currents running up and down, up and down my body. I stare at my feet, my shoes, listen to the noise around me fade and blur.

When my heart starts to race and a queasy feeling rises up in my stomach, I drop my head – my chin touching my chest – and squeeze my eyes tight – right – shut.

"Bella."

I start at the sound of my name, unused to hearing it outside of school. I look up and meet dark, kind eyes, brimming with a sort of sympathy that doesn't seem like sympathy at all – without the sting of pity, more understanding.

"Are you okay?"

I try my best to smile, but it's probably more of a grimace. "I'm fine," I say, but quietly. "Angela." Because I think she used to be my best friend. "Just . . . " I trail off, my voice wavering a little, and then shrug my shoulders like I don't know.

The corner of her mouth lifts, but her eyes dip. And then she nods like she _does_ know.

.

.

.

Students spill out of the bus to enter another enclosed space – somewhere so warm and filled with verdant green.

I'm so relieved to be off the bus that I forget for a moment. I stand stock-still on the pavement, the last to step off the bus. Kids are clumped around in small groups – talking, gesturing, and laughing.

As I stare at them I feel something cold touch my chest, like a raindrop on my heart. I look down but there's nothing. And when I look back up it only grows colder.

Right before Mr Banner starts ushering us in, Angela catches my gaze. She's stood with a boy just a bit shorter than her and a girl with mad hair. The boy is gesturing wildly, and the girl has her arms crossed. I think she might roll her eyes.

Angela takes a step and I look away.

And then Mr Banner shouts and claps his hands. And he saves my day.

.

.

.

I hang back from the collective – uncomfortable and lost in too-big groups of people.

As we walk on and Mr Banner drones on, I survey all the plants I pass. I like greenery – always have. It has a way of making me feel at ease as singularity and rain do.

My fingertips hesitate at a sharp, serrated leaf edge. But when I touch it it's smooth and soft, and not at all like its outwards demeanour suggests.

I like it.

So surreptitiously, I pluck the leaf from the dying flower – its orange petals bridled with holes, and withering – and pocket it.

.

.

.

At around 12:30, the group disperses for lunch. Some people line up to the tiny canteen, while others pull out food-filled tupperware from their bags. The sun is shining – a rarity – so people spread out among the wooden benches; unzipping coats and smiling.

I stand at the edge of the fray, feeling the darkness of the encroaching wood touch my skin. It's so close that if I took a single step to the right I would be lost amid a myriad of verdant green foliage; lush and sparkling in the sporadic sun.

So I do just that.

I am suddenly hidden, though through the dense growth I still see everything.

For a moment I just pause, chewing on my lip as I turn my head this way and that. It is much brighter than I had anticipated now that I'm inside, like a snowflake incognito; shadowed by a falling blackness that is just sky, halfway hiding it like a perception filter.

Their laughter reaches my ears, breaks through the overlaps of the leaves on the trees – dents the otherwise quiet air. So I merge deeper in, thinking but not really. My mind empties – I let rationality flee. I'm alone again, suddenly, and I'm amazed at how easy it was to be so. Wonder if it _should_ be so easy.

But no matter. As I wander I spy an innumerable amount of colour and variation. Though I don't pick anything, like I did the bemusing leaf. Everything here is so _alive_ ; I think it would be a shame to snap it in two.

Time passes as it usually does . . . but also not quite, not for me. I notice the sky darkening quicker, the light fading. Like the world is just a tiny speck on a nostalgic item somewhere that's having the lid closed on it once more. But I'm not panicking. I'm not.

That's before I actually _do start panicking._

I fumble my phone out of my pocket, lighting up the screen.

**_4:15._ **

And then I gape. Because I've been gone for almost _four hours._

I shoot a nervous look behind me; the place around me not looking quite so friendly in the oncoming dark. I had been mindlessly walking, following the dips and twists and turns of the forest, not making my own. I don't want to say the 'L' word, but rationality has come again, and it's hitting me like a heart attack.

_**I'm lost.** _

_**.** _

_**.** _

_**.** _

* * *


	3. Memories in an Empty Place

**Chapter 2 - Memories in an Empty Place**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**I'll be still lost**

***  
I'll be still lost **

*****  
I'll be still lost . . .  


**.**

**.**

**.**

I stood on the edge of the world, watching the light fade from the sky.

A lump formed in my throat as my feet mindlessly travelled. I had the distinct feeling I was going in circles, around and around until I stood stock-still, feeling a strange wave of vertigo crash over me.

I closed my eyes then – the voluntary, momentary oblivion so much more comforting than the one I was unable to control.

The thing about darkness is, is that never anything truly _is_. There is always a streetlamp on a quiet road or a blinking aeroplane in a midnight sky or even glowing stars on a dark ceiling. You're never truly alone or vulnerable really, as long as there is light.

But here in this so-dark wood it's strange . . . when the light leaves the sky everywhere around me is suddenly flooded with a pitch so dark it feels like its clambering inside of me and shutting off any inside glow I might still have left.

I think I know how to be alone, and maybe I do, but the dark makes me feel _lonely_. A lost that kind-of aches at your heart until it feels like its tearing in two.

A lost that reminds you of _loss_.

I stumble over brambles and branches until it feels like my lungs have forgotten how to take a proper breath. I take quick, shallow pants that echo in my ears, and I try to ignore the ever-rising panic – starting off in my stomach, wrapping its ivy around my heart before it seizes my throat.

I taste thorns and I fall.

I press my face into the leaves of the forest floor trying to think, trying to be calm. The light has gone. I'm on my own.

This would have been fine, if only the sky was still bright.

I lie there for a minute, wallowing and not panicking until something occurs to me.

_My phone._

For a brief moment a spark rattles through me. I sit upright and shakily pull the phone out of my pocket, suddenly grateful that Charlie had bought me one, despite my insistence it would be pointless.

I click a button and the screen lights up, illuminating my face in its glow. A small ripple – not quite a wave – of relief washes through me at the sight of the tiny pixelated screen and its artificial glow. I check the battery and it's full, and a little relived laugh bubbles out of my chest.

_Thank god._

I go to call Charlie, but of course –

_No signal._

My lip becomes a chew-toy between my teeth as I stare, illuminated and lost. With trepidation I glance up, not quite retaining the shiver that ripples through me; cold and quiet and much too covered up, like it has a secret it doesn't want to share.

I stand up, holding the phone out in front of me like a torch. I can't just wait here, though I know that maybe I should. Maybe I should stay where I am so I don't wander any further. Maybe I should stay where I am, under a prelude or pretense of pretend and safety. Or a pretend _of_ safety.

But I can't.

I am, in a word, _scared_.

So I run until I find the light.

.

.

.

_It was in the middle of the night when it happened._

_I was in that in-between space that isn't really sleep but which isn't fully consciousness, either. The glow from the ceiling was just dim spots behind my eyelids and the house was so quiet that I heard every drop of rain dripping down my window, splashing on the sill._

_Drowsiness was such a wonderful feeling when you were allowed to give in to it._

_But then I remember being jostled, being pulled from my state by invading arms into the cold air. I made noises of protest but the arms didn't listen. I couldn't remember the last time anyone had picked me up like that. Everything was still quiet when I was buckled into the passenger seat, and though I could hear it I never saw it until I opened my eyes at last._

_I had seen my dad's eyes look like that before – red and oh-so full. But I'd never seen the brimming turn into a waterfall – until that night._

_I didn't ask where we were going, couldn't speak because it suddenly felt like there was a tennis ball being stuffed down my throat. So I sat there, feeling raw and empty and afraid of the strange silence, feeling so much younger than fifteen._

_When we arrived at the hospital, something in my stomach twisted, making me feel sick. I stared up at the tall building, glowing almost ominously in the evening dark, and felt the lump in my throat double in size. Charlie sat beside me, as still as stone for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly it looked as if it might snap in half, or crumble into dust. Into nothing._

_His red eyes rolled towards me once, I thought – filled with dread._

_Once inside, Charlie sat me in a steel chair in the waiting room and walked up to the reception desk a little ways away. His hands shook as he walked, I noticed, so he balled them into fists and shoved them into his pockets. Looking down, I saw my own hands trembling and followed his example._

_It was so bright, too bright, the light lurid and unwelcoming. So I closed my eyes against them. Against the coughing and muffled crying and the tap tap tap of the keys at the desk. I wished I could shut my ears against all of it too._

_When I opened my eyes a little later, Charlie stood above me. I jumped, a little bit startled, my heart hammering at the exhausted look in his eyes. But then he smiled, all artifice and pain, and offered his hand to me. "Come on," he said._

_And so I went._

.

.

.

The darkness carries on until its full, fit to bursting its constraints in the sky to overtake the land it blankets every night.

I'm not sure what keeps me going. I stumble over branches many times yet my feet always find purchase again. Things brush against my skin, sometimes my cheeks, sometimes my hands. Maybe leaves or gnats – it's too dark to tell. And there's a dreadful wind that chaps at my nose and lips, hollowing sorrowfully as it does so.

But my feet keep on going, though they know not where. There's a tight urgency in my chest, something akin to something I've felt before, and I just know that whatever I do, I mustn't stop. I _can't_ stop. Because it's always so much harder to start again. _I'll just keep walking_ , I decide, my thoughts rattling about, my feet treading quickly to stem the fear, _I'll just keep walking until dawn, and then I'll find my way, and then I'll rest._

I repeat this mantra, over and over to myself, imagining it like a drum beat thumping in tandem with the rhythm of my heart.

My thoughts flitter to Charlie almost obsessively, the worry he may be feeling gnawing at my gut until I'm left with a deep ache, a deep hollow. I try to swipe at his image in my mind, but he persists, and all I can see are his eyes, red as they were before, ringed and raw with pain.

I squeeze my eyes tightly shut and dig my nails into my palms.

But I keep on walking.

.

.

.

Like so many things, the night persists.

Living in the quiet little town of Forks, nestled deep within trees and all things green, I was used to being encroached on all sides by the dark. Even in the summer months, the light still seemed to arrive late and leave early, like it was so tired of our tiny town.

The evening is peaceful and calm, usually a respite from forced niceties in stilted social situations. I liked it . . . but only when I was safe _from_ it.

It had gotten colder.

And it had started to rain.

Just mere spatters, splashing silently on the crown of my head, my cheek.

Rain was another thing I liked; the smell of it, the sound of it on the roof tiles. But getting soaked to the bone would only worsen my situation, which would happen if it turned torrential, and it would. Because this was Forks. And it never seemed to do anything by halves – least of all bad weather.

I sighed as I tilted my face up to the sky. It was sliced into a million pieces by the branches hanging overhead, but droplets of cold water rolled down waxy leaves to meet me. I closed my eyes. It was cold on the back of my eyelids and on my nose, and I was cold, but it felt good anyway.

It felt like a sort of peaceful presence.

Like company.

But then the wind blew again, and I shuddered despite myself. I opened my eyes and turned to move my head, but not before my eyes caught something in the sky.

I did a double take, my eyes squinting and then widening. But then I blinked again, and it was gone.

_It looked sort of like . . . sort of like . . ._

I shook my head, refusing to even consider it. Instead I turned until I was looking straight ahead, and quickened my step.

.

.

.

_I stood at the bottom of the hospital bed, staring at someone whom my eyes didn't recognise, though my heart did._

_Bruised and battered, and tethered to the ground by so many tubes threaded into her veins, lay my mother. Idly, and as distraction from the seizing forming around my heart, I thought how much she'd hate that – being stuck in this place, in any place._

_I wanted her to get up._

_To pull the tubes out._

_To run away if she had to._

_Just to be anywhere but here._

_My eyes lifted to Charlie. His were on mom, his hand hovering over her papery cheek like if he touched her, she might tear. His eyes were wide and wet when he raised them to mine. And the next words out of his mouth made my heart quiver, matching the ones trembling on his lips._

" _Say goodbye, Bella."_

.

.

.

The wind tore at my eyes, and the rain water rolled down my cheeks until I couldn't tell my tears and nature apart. They mingled together, like merging clouds, blotting out any clarity of bright sunlight or a shining moon.

I deflated as the night passed. The rain lost its novelty, the pretence of peace it offered only ever fleeting. I grew colder, in more ways than one, and without the light I was only left with the pain. I wanted a sunny distraction, but all I had was a prevailing night.

But still.

My feet carried me on.

.

.

.

_I stared at him for so long that everything else seemed to blur and fade away. All I saw were his eyes. They made everything seem so surreal._

Too much.

" _I don't want to," I whispered, my lips trembling, my voice a strangled warble. At my answer his eyes grew sadder,_ stranger _._

" _No." I spoke this time with a deeper resolve. This wasn't real, this wasn't real._

_**This wasn't real.** _

" _Bella," he spoke softly, his voice so strained. "Please."_

_I had to look away from his eyes, pleading with me to do something he should never be asking of me. I couldn't._ I wouldn't.

_**Anything but goodbye.** _

_I crept around to the side of the bed, my eyes fastening on her hands, her arms, any part which wasn't shielded by the blanket covering her. She had never looked so_ small _. . . so swallowed up by the world._

_I watched the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, and as I took her hand I felt the pulse in her wrist. She was okay. She was alive. She wasn't . . . going anywhere._

_Slowly lowering myself into the chair next to her bed, I leaned forward and rested my head on the pillow next to hers. Her face was turned towards me, and up this close she looked so much more . . . hurt._

_But alive._

_Still so alive._

" _I'm here," I whispered to her sleeping form. "Everything's gonna be alright now. You'll see."_

_I fell asleep with my forehead pressed against hers._

_But despite my words, tears forced their way past my lids, pouring like blood from a weeping wound._

_._

_._

_._

After hours of wandering, I finally came to a standstill.

My feet paused before my eyes widened.

A large house was nestled into the woods, looking more forest than it did brick work. It was still dark, but I could make out the ivy climbing up the walls, the large trees swaying on either side of it and twitching grass, so long that it brushed my thighs as I walked through it, spread all around it, making it seem as though it had grown out of the land.

I gaped before a swell of relief tore through my chest, and my legs hurried me on to my sudden safe haven.

When I reached the door, a bout of trepidation abruptly made itself known.

I knocked, hesitantly, but no one answered. I knocked again, more forcefully this time, but again, silence greeted my request.

With my hand on the knob, I turned it, half expecting it to be locked.

It wasn't.

I half pushed the door open, wondering if I really wanted to do this. Even with the pelting of rain and unforgiving wind, it still felt wrong to trespass.

I guess being the daughter of a cop had instilled me with strong moral principles, even in times wherein self-preservation was screaming at me.

I turned back to look behind me, even though the rain was so heavy that it was hard to open my eyes properly. Suddenly, the forest was alight, however brief, as a bolt of lightning sliced through the air. I was afforded a view of the massing greenery, suddenly looking so looming, so _threatening,_ that the fine hairs all over my body stood on end. A rumble of thunder rattled the air soon after . . . and I was inside before I could talk myself out of it.

"Okay," I whispered, my heart in my throat, my legs like jelly. Then I took two steps forward.

And promptly collapsed where I stood.

.

.

.

**When you come**

***  
When will you come**

***  
To look for me . . .**

**.**

**.**

**.**


	4. Something Unexpected

**Chapter 3 – Something Unexpected  
**

.

.

.

Edward brooded.

He perched in a tree overlooking his house, his fingers steepled underneath his chin as he thought.

The last thing he ever expected to happen actually _had_ happened, and he was in a state of denial about it, though he would never admit this to himself. Instead he chose to reflect on the incident which had occurred mere hours ago, only feet away from where he was sitting.

.

.

.

_Edward let his fingers dance upon the ivory keys, playing too softly for any but his own kind to hear. He didn't like the brash, loud sounds of this world, and silence came so much easier to him. So he played quietly, letting himself enjoy one of the things that earth could offer him._

_It was another tumultuous day . . . or night he supposed, briefly lifting his gaze to glance out of the window. It always seemed to be raining here, or storming, or hailing. The rumble of thunder off in the distance sent a twinge of irritation down his spine._ Always so noisy _, he thought. Not for the first time, he wished he could tone down the efficiency of his hearing._

_He could almost hear Jasper in his head, laughing at him. He was always dismissing Edward's less than jovial moods with a flick of his hand, a rolling of his eyes. He couldn't seem to understand why Edward hated earth so much, when Jasper was having the opposite experience. What Edward found repulsive, Jasper found delightful, annoyances were quirks and irritations were delights that should be appreciated, not snubbed._

_Edward usually left then, liking his solitary considerably more than Jasper's misplaced enthusiasm._

_It didn't matter though. In just a month all of this would be over. He would say goodbye to earth with all the enthusiasm of Jasper's he could muster, confident in the assurance that he would never have to set eyes on it ever again._

_Almost smiling at the prospect of returning home, Edward's fingers glided faster over the keys, his hands just a quick blur of movement. He could hear the rustle of the trees outside and the pelting of rain on the windows, saw the quick flash of lightning that lit up the room and felt the thunder resound in his bones, but for a moment it all faded away as an overwhelming surge of pure_ relief _washed over him._

_**Soon.** _

_It was short lived, however._

_A loud_ bang _echoed in his ears, and his fingers abruptly stopped moving._

_He didn't need to strain his ears to hear any better; he heard the whispered_ okay _clear enough._

_Edward froze. There was a human inside of his house._

_He stared blankly at the piano keys in front of him for a moment, uncomprehending. He wasn't equipped to deal with a situation like this . . . to deal with a human._

_So when he finally became animated again, his movements were stilted and rough, so unlike the motions of grace that were otherwise second nature to him. He rose to his feet slowly, at the same time he heard the human's move forward – once, twice – and then stop._

_The relief that had previously filled up his chest was replaced with a surge of dread. His feet wouldn't move. He contemplated simply staying where he was until the human vacated his residence. They had to leave at some point, surely? And what did it matter if they didn't, anyway? He would be gone in a month._

_But then irritation replaced the dread, so thick and hot that he felt his skin blaze with the ensuing heat. He didn't want this human in his home, soiling and tainting his last month. He was certainly eager to leave this place behind, but it was if suddenly all of his rage against the primitive species came swelling up, leaving behind only a dam of repulsion._

This human had no right, _he thought. And he wanted them gone._

_Now._

_So with a temper as black as the night outside, he forced his feet to move and strode from the room. He was on the other side of the house, but his steps were still inherently silent. He glided over the wooden floors, stirring only dust particles in his wake. His intention had been to scare the intruder away; with his mood as it was it would have been so easy. But when he neared the entrance hall, he stopped._

_He just_ stopped _._

_And then immediately, he was up in the rafters._

_From there, he stared down at the crumpled figure on the floor. Even in the dark, his adept eyes were able to see the human so clearly._

_He didn't know what he'd expected to see . . . but it wasn't this._

_They were so_ small _. That was the first thing he noticed. Now, he was no expert on humans in any capacity, but in the many years he'd been around he hadn't gotten by without seeing any humans before. They were littered all over the earth, crawling on every surface likes billions of ants, so it was an inevitability. But he hadn't realised they were so . . ._ small _._

_This human looked positively miniature curled up like that, like some of the young offspring he'd seen before. A child._

_Though he supposed most of them were children compared to him._

_The second thing he noticed was the hair. Long, so long, it spiralled down the humans legs they were currently hugging. He wasn't sure why his eyes kept trailing up and down the long, brown strands. Perhaps because they seemed to be hiding everything else._

Hiding from what? _He thought._

_Then he noticed the shaking._

_The human's shoulders were shuddering, getting more forceful the longer he watched. He tilted his head to the side, trying to observe the figure from every angle._

Why? _He wondered._ Is this something that they do? A defence mechanism against possible threats?

_He thought that if this was the case, then it wasn't a very good one. If anything, the trembling only served in making the human seem . . ._

_He wasn't sure._

_But he definitely didn't feel threatened._

_In fact, he found he didn't feel much of anything. All of that earlier dread and rage had fizzled out, leaving him feeling strangely . . . empty._

_He felt hollow._

_His fingers gripped the rafters tightly, but still, he watched the human._

.

.

.

"Having your habitual sulk?"

Edward was pulled out of his musings by Jasper, who suddenly appeared on the branch next to him. He scowled at his friend.

"Celestial beings don't sulk, Jasper," he said irritably, before he lifted his wings and disappeared from sight.

.

.

.


	5. She?

**Chapter 4 _– She?_  
**

.

.

.

Once back inside the house, Edward's wings flapped gently in an attempt to rid themselves of the rain which had dampened them so. Meanwhile, his eyes were focused on the stairs, and his mind, on the human who slept so soundly on the second floor.

.

.

.

_After watching her shoulders shake for so long in curiosity, he was almost startled when the shudders stopped altogether. His fingers gripped the wood tighter, his body leaning forward as he waited to see what they would do next._

_The empty feeling hadn't left him. If anything, it had grown worse. But he let it merely linger on his peripheral, ignoring it instead of the human below him. That should have made him pause for thought then, but he found himself feeling too . . . strange._

_He found he couldn't help himself._

_So he watched, and he waited, and he tried not to wonder why._

_His eyes widened as the human suddenly started to lean – no, topple – forwards. His head tilted, and tilted, as he watched their position change. For a moment it looked as though they were going to embrace the floor, but at the last minute, and in a motion so graceless he almost flinched back at the clumsiness of it, the human tipped over onto their side._

_He stared, confounded, as a muffled_ thump _reached his ears._

_Why had they done that?_

_More than slightly baffled –_ humans were so strange _– he studied the still figure in confusion. He knew the basic mechanisms of the human body; what it required to live and such… so he thought back._

_The words sprung to his mind as if he'd been keeping them close all this time._

Food _, he thought, then looked again. Clearly, that wasn't right._

_He shook his head and thought again._

Water _. No, it couldn't be that. It was pouring outside, after all._

Sunlight? _He wasn't sure that was a necessity… and all humans would have been used to the hours the night claimed anyway. So it couldn't be that._

Sleep _. . ._

_Sleep._

_Human's needed rest otherwise their bodies wouldn't function properly. Edward saw this as a huge flaw. With all the threat that the earth posed, it seemed quite a dangerous way to spend their time. But it was just something else to further separate his kind and theirs._

_He had a long list of the differences, in fact._

_So they were . . . sleeping?_

_He wondered if that's why they had been shaking earlier. Perhaps it was an indicator that the body would be shutting down soon, like a sort of forewarning._

_So quietly, and with little effort, he let go of the wood beneath his fingers and allowed himself to fall. His landing was silent, more silent even than the human who slept, whose breath shuddered out on the exhale, and dipped on the inhale, like it was causing their body great exertion to perform an automatic function._

So noisy, _his thoughts repeated._ Even in their sleep.

_He didn't move any closer for a minute, instead opting to observe the human from this angle. They were turned on their side, facing away from him, so mostly all he saw was all that hair again. He kept staring at it, but felt a twinge of irritation at the fact that they were still hiding from him._

_Another defence mechanism, perhaps? Shrugging, he took a step closer, another, and then another until he stood over the small human, who still looked small even as close as he was._

_A pang suddenly hit his stomach. The empty, hollow feeling that had been hanging at the edges of his peripheral suddenly decided to make itself known again. It echoed from there, crawling up his body like the ivy that had ensnared the house, and creeping all the way down until his feet felt tethered to the floor – as if he'd sprouted roots._

_He felt himself quite unable to move._

_Frowning, he looked down at his own body, like the feeling might have stemmed from an outside source. But everything looked as it always did._

_His gaze flittered to the human._

_Well, perhaps something_ was _different. But he couldn't connect the two. The human couldn't be making him feel like this, it just didn't make any sense._

_Shaking his head, he tried to push the feeling away, but it was growing stronger._

_He thought about seeking out Jasper for a moment. He loved humans, so surely this was much for his forte than Edward's. But then that thought was pushed away quickly enough –_ with too much ease, which he would contemplate later – _and replaced with the one which had become his go-to answer in understanding the human._

Defence mechanism.

_Clearly, he had underestimated their abilities to protect themselves in their sleep, where they were at their most vulnerable. They must have been using a sought of thought transference (or telepathy) to deter any possible threats – using it even against a superior being such as himself. For a minute, he was almost impressed._

_So kneeling down – still staring at all that hair (which he could now tell was quite wet) – he pondered the juxtaposition between how the human looked, to how they may actually_ be _._

Quite dangerous _, he thought, staring at the human with new interest._

_Now to him, though. This mild discomfort he could shake easily, certainly, despite the pangs that surged up as the thought flittered through his mind. He was sure it would wear off soon._

_They were still only a mere human, after all._

_Creeping closer, his hand hesitated, hovering above the damp strands. He had an alarming moment of perspective then, allowing himself to see how peculiar his actions right then were. Only some moments ago he had been swarming with rage and repulsion, and now he was very nearly touching the human._

_But then the moment was gone as he reasoned it couldn't be peculiar. He had never been this close to a human before, so his new reactions could have been perfectly plausible._

_This was enough for him._

_His fingers touched the human's hair._

All that hair.

_It was strange for a moment as his fingers adjusted to the feel – at complete odds with the last thing he'd touched, which had been the wooden rafters. This was a flurry of things all compacted into one. It was wet and cold, and it was smooth and soft. And it made him lean a bit closer as his fingers lost themselves in the mass, stroking the strands along the wooden floor to see how far they would unravel._

_It turned out they went quite far._

_He was pulled from his fun when the human shuddered again. He froze, his fingers stilling in their activity as he waited for . . . something. His heart had quickened its pace for some reason, and his insides panged again, coinciding quite exactly with the humans movement._

_He watched as they curled up tighter, dragging their body in on itself._

_Hiding._

_He frowned as the strands crawled back along the floor, away from him._

_His understanding that it was a gesture of self-preservation did nothing to soothe the tingle of annoyance spiking throughout his body._

_He_ really _wanted them to stop doing that._

_So with a scowl, he decided to just go straight to the crux of the problem. With loud footsteps which, incidentally, he was quite capable of not making (though they would have still sounded like a light tread to human ears), he stepped around to the other side._

_He let himself shrink down onto his knees again._

_Curiously, he tilted his head to side as he regarded the human. His quick eyes took an initial analysis of their face – as he was accustomed to doing with all things – and then, strangely, paused._

_And then he looked more slowly, his eyes gliding leisurely over their features rather than assessing them as simply a face, and nothing more than a face._

_His eyes widened at his actions, at his inability to stop._

_But mostly just at the human._

_They were . . ._

_He didn't know._

_But something in his stomach twisted in response._

_But they were in fact . . ._

They _were a_ she _._

_Vaguely, he recalled his recollection of humans, and even vaguer still, he recalled his recollection of the female gender._

_But he knew little._

_And not only had he never seen a human up this close before, he had also never seen a female up this close before, either._

_His head spun. He was doubly confused, and admittedly, doubly fascinated._

_Perhaps that's why he'd been so intrigued by their –_ her _(he mentally corrected himself) hair. He'd never seen hair as long as hers before._

_He slunk down a little more._

_His eyes remained fastened tightly to her face, observing all the differences he found there from his own. Her eyebrows were thinner, her nose, smaller, and her cheeks and jaw looked so_ soft _in comparison to his own sharp angles._

_His eyes drifted downwards. Her lips were . . ._

_Blue?_

_He blinked quickly._

Blue? _He thought again._

_That didn't seem right._

_Frowning once more, he lifted his hand, but didn't hesitate this time before his thumb touched her bottom lip._

Cold _, was his immediate reaction._

_Something flickered in the back of his brain, like a memory or a warning, or a combination of the two. He concentrated hard, listening to the sound of synapses snapping together as he tried to bring the information forward._

_When it dawned on him, he closed his eyes in irritation at himself._

_It wasn't sunlight._

_It was heat._

_Human bodies were tricky. They couldn't be exposed to too much heat or too much cold. An extreme at either spectrum would cause eventual death._

_His eyes flew back open, assessing the water drenching her hair, her clothes. His fingers moved to her cheeks, her forehead, crept down even to feel her hands._

_The dread that had filled his chest earlier came back two-fold. He felt his own temperature drop, his skin becoming icy in response to her own._

Too cold, _he thought._

_Much too cold._

_His stomach gave a wordless pang of agreement._

_With only that feeling of dreadful dismay coating his insides like thick tar, he quickly – but gently – lifted the human into his arms, spread out his wings, and flew up the flight of stairs._

**.**

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**A/N: So there you go. I like writing Edward because he's a strange mixture of arrogance and cluelessness... it's amusing to write (which is why I'm dragging the flashback out over a few chapters) so I hope it's fun to read!**

**Up next: more Edward, and then we'll hear from Bella again. :)**


	6. A Waiting Game

** Chapter 5 _–_ A Waiting Game   
**

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Edward only paused for a moment before he flew up the stairs, his large wings spanning outwards and then drawing in quicker as he gained speed. He could hear her slow, even breaths that he safely assumed meant she slept soundly, but he was still rather anxious about leaving her alone.

He had been gone for only ten minutes, feeling that he needed to think. But the dread had come back when his mind had wandered down a dangerous path, one which he refused to even contemplate.

The human would be a safe and easy (because his mind wouldn't stop tumbling over her) distraction . . . even though she was the one leading him down said unthinkable dangerous path.

If he could just focus on her and his intrigue _for_ her . . . then his mind wouldn't be able to wonder about anything else.

His wings spanned out once before fluttering closed against his back. He landed silently on his feet in front of the bedroom door.

He did not hesitate to open it.

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_Edward knew where he was going._

_Without conscious thought he sought out the one room he knew had a fireplace in it. He had never had a reason to use it before, but suddenly he felt so indebted to it. It would have been humorous – feeling so beholden to an inanimate object – in any other situation. But he felt her ice all over him; his chest burning cold where her nose rubbed against him. And the panic swelled up inside of him and restricted his ribcage to the point of pain._

_There was nothing funny in this circumstance._

_Once inside the room, he quickly laid her down on the bed before haphazardly throwing logs of wood onto the fireplace. His hands moved fast as he rubbed two sticks together, fire flickering to life in a matter of seconds. Stoking it and helping it along, it was blazing in just under five minutes._

_It would have been done quicker, if only his hands hadn't been shaking._

_Fear made him clumsy._

_Darting back to the bedside at a speed that would have made human eyes dizzy, he knelt down once more. Carefully lifting her, he drew back the duvet and then tucked it up until it covered all but her face. He could feel the room around him warming already, and hoped she could too._

_He stared wide eyed at the human as the seconds ticked by, holding his breath, waiting._

_But still, she shook._

_And her lips stayed blue._

_Why? He thought, trying to push back the panic so he might think of something useful._

_He trailed his hands all over her face, searching for . . . something. The tips of his fingers brushed her hair and he froze._

_For the second time that night, he wanted to yell at himself for being so dense._

_She was_ still wet.

_Letting out a growl of annoyance at himself, he abruptly ripped off the duvet and gathered her into his arms again. He stroked her face quietly before his hand moved downwards and he unzipped her coat._

_He held her against his chest as he pulled her arms out of the sodden material, scowling inwardly at how moronic he'd been. Once removed, he threw the coat across the room and felt the shirt covering her, but it was wet, too._

_His nimble fingers made quick work of the buttons of the baggy shirt covering her, manoeuvring her body the same as when he'd removed the coat. Once that had joined the coat, he checked the next layer. This one was only damp at the top – perhaps where the coat and shirt had failed to cover – but he didn't want to take any chances, so that one came off, too._

_Once that was done, he found that there were no more layers of clothing left. He pressed a hand against her stomach; it was clammy and cold, but not wet._

_Relieved, he moved onto her jeans. He gently laid her upper body on the bed as he unzipped them. He then proceeded to pull them off her legs as smoothly as if he was removing silk, not wet denim._

_He touched her calf, her thigh._

_Cold, but not wet._

_Not wanting to waste any time, he quickly bundled her up after that. He wrapped the duvet around her before he stood with her in his arms._

_Impatient waiting for the fire to reach them, he instead went to the fire._

_He pulled the chair that rested unused in the corner of the room close to the flames, wanting the human to be level with the heat. He sat down and held her tightly, his hands periodically stroking her face to feel if she was getting any warmer. He shot a worried glance at her hair. It wasn't as wet as it had been, but still, that couldn't be helping._

_He gathered the dark strands into one hand and squeezed any of the excess water out. Only a few droplets dribbled out, which meant it wasn't withholding that much water anymore. He touched the crown of her head and found it almost dry, which momentarily relieved him. He then draped the rest of her hair over the arm of the chair, so the wet wouldn't touch her neck and make her colder._

_And then he waited._

_._

_._

_._

Stepping inside the now very warm room, he crept silently to the side of the bed where the human now lay. Dropping to his knees almost immediately and always soundlessly, his wide eyes surveyed her face.

She looked even better than she had only ten minutes ago. Her cheeks were now flushed a bright red colour, matching the darkened hue of her lips, and her breath seemed to flow much more easily in and out of her lungs. Whereas before it had sounded like an effort, it now sounded like an aid to relaxation.

His own breath sighed out of him, his body melting against the bed as his skin started to warm.

.

.

.

_It took a short while, but eventually the human's temperature started to regulate._

_His hand buzzed when he made his periodic sweep of her face again, for the first time feeling warmth under her skin. His rapt eyes watched in fascination as the blue tinge to her lips started to fade, replaced by a pale pink that seemed to be darkening by the second. Her face lost some of its chalky pallor, and even her breathing seemed to get looser, easier._

_He stared. It was like watching an insentient being suddenly becoming animated._

_He was quite enraptured by this human._

_The thought fluttered through his head before he could filter it, but now that it had he couldn't take it back. Instead, he pushed it to the back of his mind and stored it in a box that read_ 'Later.'

_For now, he just wanted to look._

_He ran his finger along her nose, the soft curve of her cheek. He wondered at how she had not stirred throughout any of this. Was it only the cold? Or were all humans so immune to external forces when they slept? His fingers traced the dark circles beneath her eyes, and something in him told him that maybe she was just tired._

_Just so tired._

_The pang inside of him hit him deeply, and this time he couldn't ignore it._

_Wincing, he pulled her more tightly against his chest, and even though he didn't want to, stood up and placed her oh-so carefully back in the bed. He tucked her in, watched her warm up even more before he stepped away, and walked from the room, feeling heavy._

_He closed the door behind himself quietly, and then he fled._

_He needed to think._

_._

_._

_._

His thinking had only troubled him, and Jasper's abrupt appearance had given him a good excuse to leave. Although logically he knew he should have stayed. His friend went on and on about the delights of the earth and its people any time they were together, and Edward suddenly regretted tuning him out more often than not.

Why he just wouldn't tell him what had occurred was no mystery. For one, he knew that after years of showing nothing but distaste for the humans, to suddenly find himself so intrigued by one would be something Jasper would never let him live down.

He would be even more unbearable.

But of course it was more than that. His sudden reticence couldn't be explained by something so near to the surface.

He felt strangely . . . protective.

He wouldn't let himself tread too deeply into those waters though. The feeling floated around, abstract and ambiguous. But he just knew he wasn't ready to share this yet . . . whatever _this_ was.

Bringing himself back to the here and now, Edward pushed aside all his troubling thoughts – which was surprisingly easy to do.

He leaned closer to the human, his chin on the mattress, his eyes on her flushed skin. When her breath brushed across his face, he blinked.

And something inside of him felt a little less hollow.

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**A/N: That's the end of Edward's POV for now... we'll be back with Bella next chapter.**

**In the meantime, let me know what you think! (If you fancy)**


	7. Waking Up

**Chapter 6 – Waking Up**

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Dreams are a funny thing.

No matter how out of the ordinary they are – like talking frying pans or being best friends with your favourite celebrity – they always appear so genuine in that moment. You're thrilled and happy, or maybe just a little bit weirded out. You don't realise you need to wake up until you do. And when your eyes _do_ open, you find yourself wishing you could go back into the dream, because it's kind of better, or more appealing, than your reality.

I didn't have those kinds of dreams anymore.

So I think it was this – the absence of nightmares – which woke me.

My eyes opened slowly, in complete contrast to my heart which felt as though it was trying to beat out of my chest. My blood felt thick and my body felt heavy; a kind of drowsy that's like a drug, lulling you into a soft, sweet slumber.

But this wasn't right.

_This wasn't right._

I felt my eyebrows draw together as I frowned, confusion like a myriad of colours flickering over the back of my closed eyelids. I slept, but not like this. Never like this.

_Never so easily._

Blinking the blur from my eyes, I felt the slow intake of my breath as I stared up at the ceiling – like it was something so beyond my control . . . and it felt _good_ that it was. For a while I just let myself lie and breathe, clinging on to the fog in my mind like it would stay forever if I held on tightly enough.

But everything is always in a period of motion and change.

My eyes closed again when the fog dissipated.

_Nothing is forever._

My breath shuddered out of me that time, and the inhale left me wanting. When my eyes snapped open again, my hands relaxed, letting go of the sheets they were previously clutching.

_Just another day,_ I think.

I look down, then look back up. But it takes me a moment for me to register the omission.

_My stars._

_Where are they?_

The coloured confusion that previously swallowed up the space behind my eyelids suddenly bleeds into my vision, only this time it's a pale grey – colder. The ceiling above me is plain and white, devoid of all my little faded stars. I lean up on my elbows, squinting at the space above me like it might be a trick of the light . . . but they never reappear.

Perturbed, I pull myself into a sitting position, pulling my eyes downwards.

_These aren't my sheets._

The ones currently covering me are a deep red colour, so dark it's almost burgundy.

Mine are purple.

My hands pull at the dark duvet, feeling how thick it is, how soft. I turn around to look at the pillow behind me and find it's the same colour.

Then I lift my head up and – it's _definitely_ not a trick of the light.

My throat closes up as I observe the room around me. It's more than twice the size of my box room at home, and there are white sheets over all the furnishings in the room, like people were getting ready to paint, or leave.

A crackle draws my attention to the roaring bright spot in the room, so much bigger and grander than my worn-out stars.

I can feel the heat coming off of the blazing fire from here. My eyes widen as I stare at it, wondering if it's stupid to feel intimidated by its grandeur and life . . . because it seems so _alive_. It takes up so much space, so hungry for the oxygen it devours.

I pull my eyes reluctantly away from it, scanning the large room for any sign of a person or people. But everything is so _quiet._ It unnerves me at the same time it relaxes me. I'm used to the quiet, sure, but not from someone else. Not from someone who isn't Charlie.

I think my heart freezes in my chest then.

_Charlie_.

Suddenly, I am so angry at myself for waking up so slowly, for getting caught up in a stupid fireplace.

_Charlie_.

The events of yesterday suddenly come rushing back to me.

_Oh, God._

My mind fast forwards school and slows down on my wanderings through the forest. It pans across the night sky and zooms in on the ivy-ensnared house.

I remember collapsing onto the floor, inescapable silent tears dribbling down my cheeks as I sat there. I remember darkness, I remember falling asleep . . .

I look around me _. I don't remember this._

The panic that had surrounded my throat earlier suddenly grips me tightly; squeezing my ribcage until I feel breathless – only, air doesn't help. In my mind, I wander through the landscape I travelled yesterday so fruitlessly and find that fear I felt then.

I feel it now.

Feeling a dreadful kind of desperation, I immediately leap up out of the bed, landing – surprisingly for once – on my feet. I wobble for a second, like I might fall, but anxiety outweighs clumsiness and I stay upright.

But when my eyes dart to my feet, they find my legs, my stomach – skin that should be hidden under layers of fabric, but which isn't.

Pressure builds up inside of my chest as a shrill, hysterical noise burns in the back of my throat. My hands go up the grip the roots of my hair as I spiral down towards panic, full and thick.

But my blood is thin.

And my body feels dangerously frail.

I have to get out

_Get out get out get out._

I immediately spin around and leap over to the door. My hand is on the knob when I hear it.

The – " _Please_."

I never understood before that, when faced with a dire situation, people in films and books would simply pause, like they had all the time in the world to contemplate their – usual fatal – future.

They could escape, they could _get out_ but it was like their feet were suddenly super glued to the floor. They had no choice but to await the devastation that was in store for them.

But I got it now.

Despite the heat of the room, and the heat seemingly rattling throughout my body, I felt colder, like I had stumbled into a block of ice – or become one. My fingers flexed on the door knob – I willed them to move – but they remained stuck – caught.

My arm shook with the strain, but my fingers wouldn't be coerced into turning.

My heart slammed in my chest.

The disembodied voice didn't speak again, and it was so silent that I almost started to believe that I had imagined it. But I heard the echo of it in my head and felt the goose bumps on my arms and knew that I hadn't.

But it was too silent. An unnerving kind.

_Me_ silent.

Common sense suddenly ticked into gear as I realised that they could be doing anything behind me . . . could be holding a gun or a knife, could be getting ready to –

I looked down at my unclothed body.

Then I inhaled, and it hurt.

I spun around before I could talk myself out of it. I couldn't be any more vulnerable than I already was. And seeing as I couldn't flee, then facing my demons had to be safer than turning my back on them.

I forced myself to look up.

For a moment, my eyes burned as they tried to register what they were seeing. But no matter how many times I blinked, the image of disbelief before me wouldn't dissipate.

There was a boy standing right in front of the window, but that wasn't what had me stunned into a stupor.

It was the burnt orange feathers that surrounded him.

**.**

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**A/N: So… cliffy, but not. We already knew he had wings, of course, but Bella didn't, and she needs to get her thoughts together…**

**Sorry for the shortness and lack of activity, but it had to be done!**


	8. A World for Grown-Ups

** Chapter 7 – A World for Grown-Ups   
**

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_No_ , I thought, _no_.

Everything you hear as a child, all the stories that feature mystical beings – like children that never grow up, enchanted forests and fairies – they seem so exciting, so _real_ in that suspended moment of naivety. Our childhood seems like it could last forever, with summers that stretch on and on and Christmases that we count down to a little earlier each year.

When real life barges in, the magic is dulled abruptly, so quick it makes you a little bit dizzy, like life is sneering and saying, _"you never stood a chance."_

Because my magic had been dulled – like the faded stars on my ceiling – I couldn't process what I was seeing – couldn't _believe_ in it enough to.

So I clung to my obtrusive rationality and thought _no_.

When the boy took a step forward, instinct took over.

I threw my hands up, like by pushing at the air I was pushing at him. "Stop!"

Out of the corner of my eye, because it was too much to look at him directly, I saw him freeze.

My breath shook as it rattled out of me, like coins in a tin can. My arms trembled, but I didn't dare let them fall to my sides. They were the only things granting me a little bit of separation from the surreal. It didn't matter that it may have only been surface apparent . . . it was held down by my insides as a very real deterrent.

His silence continued, and I think it was worse that he was. Noise would have been usual, expected. But this was different.

_None of this made any sense._

But then the air around me seemed to warp, and a slow, unexpected surge of relief shot through my veins as the quiet started to remind me of something. Of some _one._

My mind drew up a picture of his face. _Charlie_.

A lump formed in my throat once more as a pang of grief encircled my heart. All of a sudden I _miss_ him. And the anger I felt when I first awoke comes back on me two-fold.

The feeling gives me enough daring to say, "Where are my clothes?"

I still don't look at him straight on, but the thought of Charlie's worry has resolved my mind into a thick wall of steely determination. I only remember feeling like this once before – after everything – but that had faded all too quickly with the realisation that I just couldn't fix certain things – or people – by myself.

Silence answers me.

Frustrated and shaky – I still haven't lowered my arms – I carefully bring my gaze back to the boy. I want to rationalise that if he wanted to hurt me, he would have done it by now. But I'm kept on edge by the newness of the situation, so I just don't know.

I focus on his face and ignore everything else, because it's easier that way.

His face is pale and sharp, and his eyes glow unnaturally bright in the early morning dawn.

I fight a shudder that works its way down my spine, keeping my gaze from flickering. I don't waver in my stance, but my nails dig into my palms in front of me.

"I removed them," he says finally.

For a moment I falter, because of the strange lulling quality to his voice or because his response is unexpected, I'm not sure. My arms shake and almost drop, but now I feel like I need that barrier more than ever, so I keep them rigid.

I can hear my heartbeat thumping in my ears, so _loud_.

"Why?" I almost whisper, bravado suddenly gone. I wish I hadn't asked because I don't _want_ to know. But I know I need to.

My stare had shifted for a moment, wavering with the rest of my body, and I imagine I can almost feel his gaze as it flitters across my skin, tickling my eyelashes and lips.

When my focus shifts back to his, he responds.

"They were wet." He blinks at me. "And you were cold."

The way he says it . . . as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, like I should have known it already, and he couldn't fathom why I didn't.

My arms fall a fraction.

I look away from him again to peer down at myself . . . but apart from some bruises littering my legs – which I already knew I had – I don't see any other damage. I don't feel achy either, apart from the tell-tale signs of a headache and a blocked nose, which is what you get for wandering about in the cold and wet, I suppose.

He hasn't touched me. Not like . . . _that_.

Relieved, my eyes dart back to his.

"Okay," I say, wondering if it's stupid to believe him. Probably. But I do any way. "Okay."

And he still hasn't moved from when I'd told him to stop.

So, with brief hesitation, I let my arms drop.

"Please," he says again, his wide, glowing eyes suddenly insistent.

I frown at him, but he doesn't elaborate any further, so instead I ask, again, "Where are my clothes?"

I know there are so many other questions I could be asking right now like, _Why did you bring me here?_ Who _are you?_

What _are you . . ._

I dismiss that thought as soon as it enters my mind. _Not real,_ I think, _they're fake. He bought them from a normal store. He probably had them stored in his wardrobe for Halloween and just put them on to freak his intruder out . . ._

But now that I've started thinking about them I can't seem to stop. My vision stops tunnelling so now I'm forced to gaze at the entirety of him, burnt orange feathers and all.

I swallow thickly, looking for that steadfast resolve again.

I know there are all of these other questions . . . but they would all be so pointless.

_I just want to go._

"My clothes?" I repeat when he doesn't answer, because now some of the fear has dissipated, I suddenly feel mortified.

He hesitates, a guilty look crossing his face. "I don't think they are dry yet."

I shake my head. _I don't care_. "It doesn't matter."

He nods once, and then moves forward a couple of spaces, bending down. Standing, he takes another step closer and stretches his arm out in front of him. My clothes are held out in offer.

Biting down on the inside of my cheek, I take tiny steps until I stand opposite him. The bed is between us, which makes me feel both relieved and queasy.

He stands still, staring at me. I avoid his gaze because it seems too bright.

His arm doesn't shake.

I raise my arms and tug at the clothes until they fall from his grasp. I open my mouth, because there's a _thank you_ dancing on the tip of my tongue. But I snap it closed again when I realise how stupid it'd be to _thank him_ for giving me back the clothes he took off of me.

I scurry back to the other side.

I clutch the fabric to my body, the coat so long that it covers from my shoulders down to my knees. Now that most of my skin is hidden away, I feel more than a little better.

"Can you turn around?" I ask tentatively. Maybe it's a silly request given that he's the one who undressed me, coupled with the fact I've been standing in nothing but my underwear in front of him for at least ten minutes. But giving up this new found shield of security is something I really don't want to do.

He looks hesitant, but after a minute of scanning my face, he nods once more, and turns around.

I swallow thickly at the sight of his back and almost drop the clothes in my hands.

_So they're not fake._

But I can't think about that. _I can't I can't I can't._

Snapping my gaze away, I pull my clothes back on with trembling fingers. He's right, they are still wet, but it hardly matters now.

I yank my vest over my head before struggling with my damp jeans. Once done, I button Charlie's plaid top all the way up to the top until it cuts at my neck and then quickly shrug my coat on. After I shove my pumps on, my hand dips into my jean pocket until I find the hard shell of my phone.

_Still no signal._

When I look up, the boy's back is still to me.

I look away before my eyes can start to burn in disbelief, and feel a sudden overwhelming burst of desperation flood through me.

_Now_ , my feet tell me, _it's time to go._

I spin around. My hand finds the door knob.

It flexes like it's taunting me; sneering at me. I imagine the metal warps underneath my hand before a grotesque face appears, like something out of a fantastical nightmare.

It tells me, _"you never stood a chance."_

I scowl at the make-believe, magical face; crush it with my palm.

I'm not a child anymore, and the magic is over.

Then I turn the knob, and I flee.

**.**

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**A/N: *facepalm* Running away seems like Bella and Edward's favoured method of choice, huh?**


	9. Finding Home

**Chapter 8 – Finding Home**

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**.**

**.**

**Half in sunlight**

*****   
**And half in shade**

*****   
**Words in collision**

*****   
**I bend to your shape**

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**.**

**.**

I fly down the stairs, the quick tread of my feet in tandem with the quick thumping of my heart. Blood rushes through my veins, roaring in my ears, and my head throbs at the sudden jolting it's taking. But I don't slow down. I sure as heck don't stop.

I can't tell if he's following me or not because my body is beating too noisily in my ears. If I'm lucky, maybe he's still turned around where I left him.

_Maybe_.

The front door is easy to find as it's the only one with any light spilling out from under it. I pull it open and dart outside without any hassle. Then I run.

Only when I've been running for as long and hard as I can, until my lungs are burning and my head feels like it's fit to bursting, do I stop. When I come to a complete halt I cast a nervous glance behind me.

The house has disappeared, swallowed back up by the forest.

I let out a relieved breath, listening for a minute for any sounds. When I hear none, I slink down onto a nearby rock and drop my head into my palms. My heart beat starts to slow as I once more take comfort in being in the familiar arms of alone.

.

.

.

In the daylight, the forest is not nearly so menacing. The sweet sound of the birds and the gentle breeze that caresses the trees feels so much friendlier in the light of day. I recall why I was drawn here yesterday afternoon, but halt my mind before it can spiral any further.

All this green and peace turns out to be a most welcome distraction.

Every ten minutes or so I pull out my phone to check for signal. I figure that way I could at least tell if I was nearing civilisation, but the bars remain unhelpfully empty. After hours of walking – in circles, for all I knew – I come to a stop.

As the day had progressed, the sun had only grown higher and hotter. I feel it now, beating down on me relentlessly. Yesterday's storm seemed to have cleared the air for a rare sunny day in Forks, which wasn't great . . . but I suppose anything beat the rain and wind I'd been caught in last night. Grumbling, I pull off my coat, wiping my nose on my sleeve for what seemed like the hundredth time.

I tug on my hair as I sink to my knees, pressing my forehead against the forest floor – because the soil still held some of the damp – and threw my coat over my head to ward off the incongruous sun.

My forehead pounds and I sniffle.

I would never again wander off if I could just find home.

.

.

.

Edward had known she was going to run before he even turned around. There was something tight and desperate in her face that told him she wouldn't stay. And even though he knew this, even as he listened to the muffled sound of her feet turning on the carpet, the quiet way she grasped the brass metal before darting away, her feet hitting the stairs in a way which resonated throughout Edward's body, making him feel a little more hollow with each step she took away . . . even though he knew, even as he heard and felt . . . still, he let her go.

_He let her go._

Moments before she had first awoken, Edward had pulled himself away from her bedside, flying across the room until he was out of the window and sitting on the roof.

He couldn't really explain his strange behaviour, but his heart had been beating so quickly in his chest at the time, so he never stopped to analyse his actions. Instead, he listened as the human rose from their sleep, his hearing focused so intently on the sound of her breathing, the rustle of the sheets as she moved.

When he heard the soft tread of her footfalls on the carpet – heading away from him – he couldn't stay away any longer. He leapt from the roof through the window and into the room in a single bound. His landing was silent.

But for a moment he stood immobile.

Her back was to him . . . and all that  _hair_  tumbled down her shoulders to the middle of her spine like thick ivy. He gazed at the curled ends hugging her snow-white skin in fascination, recalling the feel of it between his fingers as he stroked it across the floor last night, wanting to feel it now . . .

He stared until he heard her hand on the doorknob.

She had only rested it there, but to his ears it sounded like a blow.

The  _please_  was out of his mouth before he could stem it. It seemed to arrive from someplace new, as it made him think that even if he could have stopped it, he wouldn't have.

He knew what he was pleading for. He didn't want her to go. The switch in his demeanour from yesterday morning to now was confounding – indeed, he might have laughed at the prospect of coming to be so entangled with a human only 24 hours ago. But he wasn't laughing now.

He was waiting.

She had slept for hours, so peacefully. But now that she was awake, he didn't want her to leave before he could see her face again, this time animated with life.

When she eventually had turned around, he was unprepared.

Asleep she was tantalising, tempting; something to watch over and wonder. Awake she was . . .

She was  _blinding_.

He'd stood in frozen shock while he watched her eyes flash at him. He caught them from across the room – the splash of inviting brown that reminded him of the warm barks of the trees in the summer.

They burned him.

His heart leapt up to his throat, and he couldn't help it.

He took a step forward.

With her hair like climbing ivy, her eyes like warm trees and her skin like the pale snow canvas of the sky –  _how could he resist?_

But then she'd thrown her arms up, she'd yelled, " _Stop_!"

So he had.

In the ensuing moments of stillness, where he watched her arms tremble as she held them out in front of her, and her gaze dart away from his he felt . . . strange. He hadn't thought about how she'd react, but this didn't seem good.

She had asked about her clothes. Twice. Edward's response was empty the first time because he was having a hard time concentrating – a sudden flush had bloomed in her cheeks just as she'd said the words – and Edward found himself in sensory overload. But when she'd snapped her gaze to his – that warm brown, the same rich colour as her hair – he'd found his voice again.

"I removed them," he'd said.

Strangely, he watched the red in her cheeks drain at his response. They suddenly turned pale again, and a feeling of worry niggled at his stomach.

Her whispered  _why_ had sounded so forlorn, but  _he_  didn't know why.

He'd told her his reasons with a heavy feeling of confusion settling inside of him. He thought it should have been obvious.  _What other possible cause could he have for removing her clothes?_

When she had dropped her arms it felt like he had done something right. Feeling so pleased, he'd almost took another step forward. But then his gaze had dropped downwards, and he was suddenly aware again of her unclothed state. From even across the room, he could see the tiny bumps on her arms and something gnawed at his stomach in worry again.

She had been so cold last night, and now she didn't have the thick duvet for protection anymore. And Edward knew – and as was so clearly demonstrated last night – humans were so very fragile.

His eyes had darted over to the bed so quickly then right back to hers. He looked at her and his lips had offered out an urgent  _please_  again.

But she'd only asked for her clothes again.

A swell of guilt had crept up on him as he realised that her clothes were still lying in a heap on the floor. He knew they were still wet, but she had been insistent on getting them back. When she had crept closer to retrieve them, Edward gaze remained steadfastly fixed on her. She was within arm's reach, and her eyes were so deep even though she wouldn't look directly at him.

He had been so lost in staring at her –  _again_  – that she was back across the room and asking him to  _turn around_  before he realised she was no longer closer enough to touch.

Her skin was hidden and her eyes were determined. He had known.

He had known that when he turned around she would be gone.

But still, he obeyed her request.

His gaze left her for the first time since she'd awoken.

.

.

.

It had taken Edward two seconds to realise his mistake.

Five for the panic to mount.

Seven to yell at himself for his immobility.

Nine for the rush of empty that made him wince.

And ten until he was down the stairs, out of the house, and sky high as he tracked the human running away from him and into the forest.

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.

.

I let myself rest there, on the forest floor, knowing very well that it was only succeeding in wasting time, but unable to summon all the guilt necessary as I find a momentary shelter.

But Charlie's face rears again, making me bang my forehead against the earth. I hate knowing that he's probably worrying over me somewhere – it won't be home because he won't be able to sit still. He'll be looking for me, this I know. Just like he went looking for her.

Only he had been too late then.

I heave out a groan, shaking my head from side to side to try to wipe the horrible feeling away. But it lingers, clinging onto the thread bare fibres in my mind. They never truly leave, and the pain is bearable only when it's ignored.

It is so much easier not to feel.

Being alone keeps me safe.

But I keep heart for Charlie even if I don't show it via gregarious gestures; a hug to say hello or a kiss on the cheek goodnight. I'll always love him too much, because he's all I have left, and the only person I don't want to leave me.

I don't want him to think I've left him, too.

So I snap my eyes open, my arms pushing up off the ground. But before I can, I feel something hard and solid encircle my waist, lifting me up and then picking me up. The coat is removed from my head and all I can do for a moment is blink in the bright sunlight.

I turn my head to find my gaze inches away from the boys, and level, because he's holding me like I'm a baby.

I blink again, because his eyes are brighter than the sun.

"Please," he whispers softly, his voice holding the gentle dulcet tones of a lullaby. "Let me help you."

I don't say yes and I don't say no.

Instead I say, brokenly, "I just want to go home."

He nods and his eyes are pillow-soft like he understands. Maybe he does.

One minute we're on the ground.

And in the next, we're in the air.

**.**

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**A/N: Have to admit, giggled a little when writing – " _What other possible cause could he have for removing her clothes?_ " Edward is 100% winning in the adorably clueless department. :')**

**Thanks for reading!**


	10. Reassurance

**Chapter 9 – Reassurance **

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I squeeze my eyes tightly shut as the world swerves past, partly because if I look down I think I might be sick, but mostly because denial will spring from my lips as soon as I do. But the wind chapping at my cheeks, the arms around me and the soft _whoosh_ of something keeping us up in the clouds can't be denied anymore.

I tremble all over. It's colder up here, but that isn't why I'm shaking.

I am hugged tighter anyway.

Banishing all sense, I rest my cheek against his chest and listen to the rapid _thump thump_ of his heart. And even though his chest is bare his skin is so warm. It reminds me of being back in that room, with the fire that seemed to take up the whole space with its heat . . .

His chest vibrates under me.

"Which one is yours?" he asks softly.

My eyes shoot open at the sound of his voice, my heart thudding. I stare at his skin, unblinking and uncomprehending.

"Where is your home?" he prompts again, his voice dropping lower and ticking my ear, moving closer so I can hear him better.

I pull my head up after a moment, meeting the gaze trained on me.

My breath catches as I watch his eyes swirl, transforming and changing like the seasons transform and change the colour of tree leaves. They settle on soft amber that shimmers, rippling gently like calm water under a still moon. And when he blinks, the ink of his eyelashes creates a sweep of dark sky that whispers across the subdued light illuminating from his eyes.

His gaze is beautiful, but in such a surreal way, as if it was stolen from a painter's mind.

"My home?" I whisper.

He nods only once, his hair tumbling forward as he tips his head downwards. His gaze darts away from me for a moment before returning.

I drag my gaze from his to see what his stare at been directed at. I have to snap my eyes shut again, only glimpsing the sight of houses and small shops.

We're . . . _above_ town.

I swallow thickly, my mind screaming at me to _get it together_ even as my heart trills at the sight of being so high off the ground. Safe, stable _ground_.

I try to do it quickly.

My eyes dart to the side of me, past the familiar shops and school until I see its foundations. It looks so small from here, and so secluded.

I lift my arm and quickly point to it, it's easy to spot and differentiate because of the amount of overflowing greenery encasing the front and back of it. "That one." I pull my trembling arm back into the safety of my body then, not liking how it hung in mid-air – suspended and helpless.

Pressing my face back into his chest I mumble, "The one with the overgrown garden."

I rise with him as he inhales deeply, before letting out a sigh that sounds almost painful, that is lost to the wind almost as soon as it appears. My stomach flip-flops when he starts moving again, and my eyes find themselves falling shut once more.

I feel it when his feet touch the ground.

A relieved breath I didn't realise I had been harbouring escapes me as everything suddenly becomes still. I open my eyes after a minute, lifting my head up until I see lank grass and so many weeds; neglected windows on an old run-down shed, and the faded blue of our house. I swallow thickly, something stinging in my heart before working its way up to my eyes.

_Home._

"You can . . . can put me down now," I whisper.

He hesitates for a moment, his arms tightening around me a fraction before he releases me, setting me gently upright on the ground. I sway for a second, prompting him to put a steadying hand on my arm. I can sense him looking at me while I look up at the house, suddenly feeling the need to run inside and shut myself away.

But instead I turn to the boy.

I look into his eyes and I tell him, "Thank you."

Because I at least owe him that.

His amber eyes glimmer back at me. And when he smiles it turns into glitter, into hundreds of thousands of tiny stars perched in the centre of his gaze, like he has a whole constellation inside of him – lighting him up.

_Maybe that's why they're so bright._

"You're welcome . . . " he says-smiles, and then inclines his head to the side, like he's waiting for something.

I think it's my name. So I tell him. "Bella . . . I'm Bella."

His gaze feathers across my skin, but when he doesn't say anything more, I look away. The heat of his gaze is too much, too confusing.

"I guess I'll . . . be going then." I take a step away, but his hand is still on my arm, so when I move, he comes with me.

I pause, and then I look back up at him, almost reluctantly, a question in my gaze.

"My name is Edward," he says, sort of hurriedly. I nod slowly in reply, watching his gaze turn a little darker, looking more like drenched earth now. "Will you permit me to see you again?"

Something inside of me jolts, jerking my body backwards. His question, much like his gaze, is too much right now.

"I don't know," I tell him, half-lying, half not. I _don't_ know . . . but something in me wants to outright tell him _no_. But there's no part of me that definitely wants to say _yes_. Because I don't understand this. I don't understand _any_ of this.

For the second time today I think, _none of this makes any sense._

He nods slowly, like he wasn't expecting anything more.

Something pangs inside of me, but I shake it off quickly.

"So, goodbye then . . . " I trail off, stepping further away, trying to shake his hold loose.

His eyes tighten around the edges as he follows me once more, turning almost black and completely starless. "If you want me," he starts, his hand burning my upper arm, even through the layers of fabric. "Just speak my name, and I'll be here."

My heart thumps in my chest.

"Okay," I whisper, and I don't question it, because after today – _how can I?_

His hand falls from my arm in fingers, until the last thing I feel is the tip of his index finger brushing against my shirt. He takes a step back, but not before I feel the sudden drop in temperature his skin takes.

"Goodbye, Bella," he utters gently, smiles something sad, and then shoots off into the sky.

A gasp inadvertently leaves my lips as I watch him go, a blur of burnt orange against the pale blue sky.

When I blink, he's gone, taking all of his colour with him.

.

.

.

By the time I have turned back to the house, Charlie's face is swarming in my mind as I run up the steps. I take them two at a time, shoving my keys into the lock and then darting inside.

He isn't here.

I have to bite my lip to hold in the sob that threatens to spill out. I knew he wouldn't be. I knew he would have been at the station, or out looking for me. But I had asked . . . _Edward_ to bring me back here because here was home. Memories were embedded into these walls even if the walls themselves were seemingly unimportant. Picture frames and window-sills and even the abandoned old shed and faded paint work were all sentiments of another time – something that felt like another life, sometimes.

Laughs and tears and everyday mundane conversations. It was all here. And it always would be.

So I rush upstairs then, because I know exactly where I want to be.

Then I find my phone and I ring Charlie.

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.

.

I hear his boots on the stairs first, and then the creak of the floorboards as he opens doors and looks inside rooms, calling my name.

"I'm here," I manage to warble out.

Then he opens the right door, he stands in the doorway, he says, "Oh, Bella."

I burst into tears.

The next thing I know dad-smell is all around me and the scruff on his cheek is on my cheek as he hugs me so, so tightly. I cling to him like sadness clings to the threadbare fibres in my mind, wishing everything would go away, wishing everything would stop feeling so bad.

He doesn't shush me or tell me not to cry, just holds me, and I think he might cry a little bit too.

"I thought I'd lost you," he chokes out, and there is an unspoken, _like her_ attached to his words.

I shake my head. "I wandered off into the woods," I try to say, but my voice won't stop trembling. "I'm sorry. _I'm so sorry."_

He hugs me tighter, like he needs the reassurance I'm really here. And really alive. His voice his thick when he says, "Don't ever do that to me again."

I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling the ache in my throat. "I won't. I promise I won't ever."

And then because I can't remember the last time I said it, and it suddenly seems so important, I tell him, "I love you, dad. Forever."

His voice is raw when he responds, more vulnerable and open than I've heard in almost two years. "I love you too, Bella. So much."

**.**

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* * *


	11. Home is Where the Heart is

**Chapter 10 – Home is Where the Heart is**

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.

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Edward had not immediately returned back to the house upon bidding _Bella_ goodbye.

He had sped away and hidden amongst the trees, staring down at her immersed in the tall grass. Her eyes were round, her mouth open in a gasp. She was once again seemingly small, but amid all the greenery he thought she stood out so bright, beaming tall and brilliant just for him.

After a minute she'd shook her head, looked down then knelt down before rushing back to her home, running up the steps like the devil was on her tail.

He felt like he had been submerged into water, watching her fade from view, when only moments ago she was so _close_. He clung onto the tree branch, his fingers snapping the bark in two as he tried to strap down his whirring insides. But they revolted and sprang up, vibrating, _humming_.

Something wasn't right, he knew this. He _needed_ to talk to Jasper; it couldn't be put off any longer.

If his assumption of what was happening proved to be correct . . . well. He wasn't sure what he would do, just as he wasn't sure how he felt about it. His feelings were tumultuous, such as he'd never felt before. He couldn't remember a time when he'd felt torn between anything – ever.

But he was so torn now.

Her phone call to her father had been muted – he'd had to lean forward to catch her voice. But when he had, he'd felt that pang inside of him again, rising up out of the obliterated ashes of his insides, calling to him, _pulling_ at him.

His choice seemed so easy to make when she was so near, and he was feeling like this. But it shouldn't have been, he didn't _want_ it to be, and that's why he needed to get away – fast.

But he stayed until he heard her father return, because he couldn't bear to leave her alone.

He'd heard the sobs as soon as he'd taken a step off the branch.

He'd forced himself not to look back.

.

.

.

Edward waited on a tree branch some distance into the forest, knowing that Jasper would come soon.

Despite all of Edward's hang-ups about humans and Jasper's continued insistence of their brilliance, he was still Edward's most loyal friend. They differentiated on many matters, yes, but this wasn't always a bad thing. He saw things in a way Edward could not, and vice-versa. And Jasper had a way about him; a sort of calm that had helped to make sense of Edward's jumbled thoughts on many occasions.

He was hoping today would be no exception.

"You have a problem."

He had arrived without the slightest flutter of wind to stir the tree leaves. He had arrived as Edward always did; silently.

"Indeed," Edward replied without turning his head, not even wondering how he knew.

"Hmm," Jasper hummed. "So I was right then. You _were_ agitated earlier – I could feel it." Even though Edward's face was turned towards the forest, he could imagine Jasper's finger tapping his chin in thought. A gesture he had no doubt picked up from his beloved humans. "But what could have ruffled your feathers so?" he continued in amusement.

Edward finally turned to face his friend. "This is a serious matter," he replied, his eyebrows furrowing. "I would appreciate it if you treated it as such."

Jasper rolled his eyes at his stern-faced friend. "All matters are serious to you, brother."

Edward's annoyance streaked. " _Jasper_."

" _Okay_ ," he replied, his tone losing its humour. He swivelled on the branch until he was facing Edward, then opened his arms smoothly and said, "I'm listening."

Edward inhaled deeply, a nervous breath – something which caught Jasper's attention in surprise – before launching into all that had occurred the previous night and the following morning.

As Jasper listened to Edward tale, his eyebrows had crept higher and higher until they were hidden by the glossy locks that spilled over his forehead. By the end of his story, Edward's voice had risen an octave or two and he was twitching in a way that had Jasper's eyes widening. His friend always seemed so composed outwardly, that to see the physical effects of his internal turmoil was something which Jasper had no experience in.

Yet . . . Jasper was not surprised. And he told Edward so.

"What!" Edward burst out, causing a few birds perched in the trees nearby to scatter. "This is the last thing on this planet – and ours – that I ever wanted to happen! How does this not shock you?"

A smile twitched on Jasper's lips, yet he kept it hidden, knowing that it would only agitate his friend further. "Just because it is the last thing you wanted to happen, does not make it _surprising_ that it did so," he pointed out – rather _annoyingly_ – Edward thought. "It is to be expected. It is why we are here, after all."

Edward's face dropped at Jasper's words. "So you think my assumption correct then?"

Jasper nodded. "I know it to be."

Edward blinked at his friend, first in confusion, but which quickly gave way to aggravation. "How do you so assuredly _claim_ to be in possession of such knowledge?"

"We were told many a time – "

"But that does not necessarily translate – "

" – _what_ it would feel like, what would happen," Jasper went on, as if Edward had never interrupted. He hesitated a moment before adding, "But it is not just that."

Edward felt a sense of foreboding, he didn't want to inquire what else there was. It could only be more evidence not in his favour. But of course he had to ask. "What, Jasper?"

Jasper surreptitiously looked around – which was ridiculous considering they were miles above the ground, and so far out of reach of any human ears, not that there were any humans for miles anyway – and then he leaned closer.

"It is because I was in your position just shy of three weeks ago."

Edward's eyes widened. For a moment he could not form a response.

Jasper leaned back, regarding his friends silence in amusement. Edward was often silent, but so infrequently like this.

Finally, Edward found his voice and said, "You lie." But his voice was inundated with doubt, like he was forcing himself to say the words – _willing_ them to be true.

Jasper shook his head in earnest. "I speak the truth!" he insisted, and went on to explain. "I was doing my habitual swoop above town – as I do every afternoon. I was paying particular attention to the hospital, I remember," his eyes misted as he reminisced, but he momentarily broke his story to say – "Fascinating, isn't it? The way they seek to preserve life so ardently, ensuring their survival for so many millennia to come – "

"Jasper," Edward interrupted, his desperation growing.

"Right, right," his friend said, before returning to his tale. "As I landed on the roof off the building, I felt something call out inside of me like a – pang – as you described it. It was such a startling sensation that I froze for a moment . . . when I came to my eyes immediately lighted on a person on the opposite side of the roof, facing away from me. My vision had tunnelled, and I felt that pull again. I had crossed without my feet being aware of my moving, and before I – or she – knew it, I had been touching her shoulder. When she turned to face me – " he abruptly stopped, his eyes clearing as his gaze swivelled back to Edward.

"She had run away." He frowned. "I did not like that."

"No," Edward said miserably, recalling his own feeling of panic when Bella had fled.

Jasper smiled then, his eyes brightening among the dense foliage. "But she does not run from me now."

Edward eyes widened, then narrowed. "You see her still?"

"Of course," his friend replied, his eyebrows darting up. "Just as Bella is yours, she is my – "

Edward held a hand up. "Do not say it."

One of Jasper's blonde brows dropped. "But how can you deny it still? You even told her to speak your name if ever she wants you."

In a surprisingly human gesture, Edward dragged his hands through his hair in frustration, sending the bronze locks into messy disarray. "I am not myself when I am with her. I cannot think clearly or in perspective _of_ anything else. She becomes the earth and I the moon, orbiting only her and losing sight of everything else." He let out a pained groan. "I do not want this. It _cannot_ be true."

Jasper could not fight the smile on his lips this time, not that it would matter, as his friends eyes were clouded over, thinking of his _Bella_ , he assumed.

"You cannot run from this, brother," Jasper told him. "You do not even want to, despite what you tell yourself."

Edward squeezed his eyes shut, like he could block out Jasper and the truths he spilled. When he spoke, his voice was oddly – and sadly, Jasper thought – childlike. "But I want to go home."

In reply, Jasper laid a comforting hand on his friends shoulder, knowing that he would resist no matter what Jasper said. Until Edward was ready – or until the pull became unbearable – he would deny his instinct and will at all cost, which would only result in deeper pain for him in the end.

"I know how you hate my penchant for human idioms," Jasper said gently. "But in this case, I think it may be apt."

"Home is where the heart is," he quoted, squeezing his friends shoulder. "And right now your home isn't thousands of light years away. It is right here."

**.**

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	12. You Could Be Happy?

**Chapter 11 – You Could Be Happy?**

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**Is it too late to remind you how** _**we were** _ **. . .**

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I awake in the middle of the night.

I'm not sure what stirs me . . . only know that it hadn't been one of my habitual nightmares. Because I don't wake up too cold or too terrified to let my eyes slide shut again. In that five second space of staring in the dark, I can discern nothing.

Yet I can feel everything.

Charlie is next to me; I can feel the rough stubble of his chin just touching my forehead. I can hear his slow, even breaths and the feeling of his hand on top of mine, like a reassuring weight, anchoring me to the here and now and reminding me not everything was so bad, not all of the time.

Something warm settles in my heart, but is kind enough to stay, instead of fleeing like it's only some ephemeral surface sheen of  _love_. This isn't playing pretend at something else; at something it could never hope to actually be.

This is  _it_.

Then the dark suddenly transforms; becomes colourful and bright, something rosy and burnt orange.

Sort of smiling in the light, my eyes drift closed.

And for the second night in a row, I sleep peacefully.

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.

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Unprecedented noises in the kitchen wake me in the morning.

I blink my eyes open slowly to the sound of pans clanging, metal on metal, followed by a series of muffled swear words. There's silence before there's something that sounds like a . . . huff? And then a quiet but firm, " _Right_."

A grin spread across my lips – so effortless that it actually surprises so much that I have to touch my mouth with my fingertips to check it's actually there.

Rising from the bed, I stand up to stretch, my body feeling sore from the previous days. I watch the light reach its bright fingered tips across the bed, warming the mattress. And when I drift over to the window, I squint up at the sun, wondering at the two fine days we've had – feeling my lips twitch at the sight of a grey cloud on the horizon.

It rains lightly at first, only mere spatters here and there, but when the clouds give themselves fully over – it pours.

I close my eyes to the sound of the rain beating the earth.

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I wander down the stairs soon after, following the smell of burning with some concern. When I round the corner into the kitchen, I freeze, stuck dumb in the doorway for a minute.

Charlie is standing over the hob, spatula in one hand . . . and a juggling act of a frying pan, a small book and a bowl of mix in the other.

"Dad?" I ask in bemusement, coming out of my stupor.

"Bella!" he bursts out, sounding simultaneously relieved and flustered. I watch in trepidation as his elbow narrowly avoids missing knocking over the frying pan as he swings around to face me. I can hear whatever he has in there hissing and spitting out angrily from here.

With wide eyes I say, "What are you doing?" I have a pretty good idea, but said idea is so . . . peculiar that I have a hard time believing what I'm seeing.

Red-faced he replies, "Making breakfast?"

I bite down on my lip to hide the smile that threatens to spill out.

"Let me help," I insist, crossing to him quickly. I take the amalgamation of items out of his hands and set them on the counter, my eyes flying over the book, the pan and the mix.

"Pancakes?" I ask curiously, looking up at him.

He nods, the hand not holding the spatula coming up the scratch the back of his neck. "They're your favourite, right?"

I blink up at him for a minute, startled. I don't remember the last time we ate breakfast together, and I never remember a time when Charlie made breakfast – for me or for himself. Not because he was negligent, just because he . . .  _couldn't_.

But he remembers this, and for some reason this small gesture has tears biting at the back of my eyes.

I look down to hide them. "Yeah," I say quietly. "They are."

Silence blankets the kitchen for a moment before he clears his throat.

"Go on and sit down then," he says gruffly, gesturing to the table he's set. I blink at that too for a second, dumbfounded. He gives me a little push towards it. "Breakfast will be ready soon."

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I watch Charlie as he works, silently fascinated.

I don't recall ever seeing him cook before, and he is clumsy at first, having trouble navigating between reading, mixing and frying. But then he starts getting the hang of it, even going as far as flipping a couple of them – which he's surprisingly good at.

When he sees my impressed gaze, he remarks, "I'm a cop, Bells. Good hand-eye coordination comes with the job."

I nod slowly; muttering a small, quiet, "Oh."

When he sets the plate down in front of me, drenched in golden syrup, I look up at him and smile. He meets my gaze for a second, looking slightly startled, before squeezing my hand and retreating to his side of the table.

Peering down at my plate, I can see the burnt outer edges of the pancake, and when I take a bite, my mouth is filled with only slightly undercooked batter and thick, sweet syrup.

Charlie clears his throat. I look up to see him scratching the back of his neck again. "I know it's not five star gourmet food but – "

"Dad, it's great," I interrupt him, taking another large bite for emphasis. My heart wilts in my chest a little at how quickly he dismisses his effort. "Really. And you even remembered how much I love syrup."

His hand falls from the back of his neck as his eyes light up. "You used to use up about a third of the bottle on only  _one_ , and then you'd be climbing the walls for hours after from all the sugar." He laughs lightly, his eyes so bright in the morning sun.

I shake my head a little, fighting a grin. "You should have taken it away from me."

His look turns sheepish, his smile – impish. "But it was funny."

A laugh leaps from my lips so suddenly that I start at the foreign sound. I clasp my hand to my mouth in surprise until Charlie starts to chuckle, and then I let it fall away.

Then we go back to our pancakes with inexorable smiles plastered to our lips, like this is something we do so easily every morning.

Somehow, that breakfast becomes the best thing I've tasted in a long, long time.

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After we've stuffed ourselves until we feel fit to bursting, Charlie slides his chair back from the table and collects the plates. He starts washing up without a word.

"I can – " I start, beginning to rise.

He shakes his head briefly. "I managed pancakes without burning the house down. This water and soap stuff is child's play."

Nodding slowly, I settle back into my chair.

"So, what do you want to do today?"

At his odd request, I almost tip myself out of my chair. I stare at his back, covered in plaid, silently for a minute. I don't know how to feel. We haven't done this . . . routine in such a long while. I feel out of sync, the audio and video not quite matching up correctly.

Hearing my silence, he shoots me a questioning gaze over his shoulder. "Bella?"

I blink at him. "Huh?"

"Uh . . . what would you like to do today?" His voice sounds more unsure this time, lacking the easy, nonchalant air his tone held the first time round. And I feel that same twinge I felt when he doubted himself with the pancakes earlier. I feel like he's trying and I keep on failing.

I take a breath. "Um," I mumble, racking my brain for past years. But my mind is too dusty, and it's taking time to recall times when we still did things together.

His shoulders droop. "That's okay, we don't have to – "

"Fishing!" I blurt out, the first and nearest thing within reach.

He turns to me then, drying his hands on a tea-towel. "Fishing, huh?" he repeats, his eyebrows high up on his forehead.

"Yeah," I reply, relieved. "You remember? We used to take a picnic when it was nice." I watch his eyes anxiously, and an inaudible sigh works its way through my veins when I see a tiny smile twitching at his lips.

Glancing out of the window he says, almost to himself, "Billy has been bugging me . . . " Then he turns back to me. "Okay, kiddo," he says, smiling properly now. "Though I think it might be a bit too wet to take a picnic."

I flick my eyes to left briefly, watching the water droplets slip down the panes of glass. Then I shrug and smile shakily back. "I don't think I could eat another thing for hours anyway."

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I stare out of the truck window as we drive to the lake, fogging the screen with my breath and drawing meaningless swirls and patterns; stars and wings.

I glance over a Charlie periodically, and every time I do his face is clouded but set; a kind of determination that may seem universal but which is so personal. I want to ask him what he's thinking, but I'm scared of the answer.

Leaning my head on the window, I swipe my patterns away and watch the rain.

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The little wooden boat looks the same as it did all those years ago.

I have drawn this scene many times over in my mind, because it always felt so bright and happy; always made me smile to think of it when I felt especially lost, or empty.

There would be a grassy embankment saturated in light that was sometimes hidden by ever present clouds. On this bank sat a large cherry red and white squared picnic blanket – the kind you always seemed to see in films. There would be a little wicker basket beside it, filled with tuna sandwiches and apple juice (my favourite), and homemade scones filled with strawberry jam, or maybe slices of Battenberg. I had chosen it because the squares inside it matched perfectly with the ones on our blanket.

Sometimes, I would out in the boat with Charlie, but more often than not I would stay on the bank; reading or drawing or playing – frequently just lying down next to mom, her fingers tickling my hair.

A day there would last all day, but when the sun went down it still felt like too soon to say goodbye.

Blinking back the memories, I turn slightly to my right, watching Charlie's eyes fade in the morning dew. When he blinks, I watch him fall back to earth.

He sighs. When he peers at me his eyes look sad, before he quickly dismisses it. He smiles, but it isn't as deep as it was this morning.

Nodding to the boat, he says, "Come on then."

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That day doesn't last as long, and we have to leave when the rain turns to hail. But so many times I open my mouth, want to say something,  _anything_. Yet it dries up each time I look to him, my voice becomes lost somewhere in the vast expanse of my throat, and so I remain silent.

Everything I think of to say has something of her in it, because this was our place and she's everywhere. I want so badly to talk to him about it. But his eyes are so, so far away, that even if I yelled I don't think I could reach him.

It was a bad idea – coming here – I only wished I'd realised that before my lips had been stupid enough to spew the suggestion out.

_I'm sorry,_  I think.

The drive back is unlike the drive there. The quiet feels like a thick layer of lead being forced down into my lungs. I want this morning back, I want that ease and familiarity.

_I want, I want, I want._

The hail is heavy and violent on the roof, and nothing at all like the rain.

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"We'll do this again tomorrow, hey?"

I lift my gaze to Charlie's from where I sit in front of the fire, staring at the flames.

"But what about work?" I ask hurriedly, panic gnawing at the edges of my stomach. "And school?"

He frowns slightly. "Work isn't a problem . . . and school, well, that doesn't last all day. We can do something when you come home tomorrow." His eyes brighten a little. "I'll have dinner cooked for when you get home, and then – "

"Dad," I interrupt him, my voice strained. "I have a lot on at the moment . . . and exams are coming up so I – things are just a bit . . . " I trail off, struggling.

It's not the truth, and I feel my heart ache when I watch his shoulders droop for the second time that day.

"Okay," he mutters, his hand trailing to his neck again. "Well I guess I'll just . . . catch up on some work stuff I missed today then."

I nod slowly, feeling my heart wilt like a flower that's gone too long without water. I watch as his gaze slides shut before reopening again. His stare is quiet, the determination on his face from earlier all but gone. But there is a glimmer of something new, and it makes something flare in my heart.

Taking the three steps towards me, he quickly reaches down and kisses the top of my head. I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling everything.

"I'll make dinner tonight," he murmurs. "And tomorrow night and – and all week, okay? And I can pick you up from school tomorrow, and drive you there . . . because I know how you always walk, even in the rain, and I don't want you to – don't want –" I hear him swallow thickly from above me, his voice choking off.

In response, a tear finally manages to sneak its way past my eyelid, falling onto the carpet below with a soundless cry.

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	13. Misplaced Affection

** Chapter 12 – Misplaced Affection **

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**I'm a satellite heart _lost_ in the dark . . .**

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The following morning, as promised, Charlie drives me to school.

Eating breakfast I loiter, in the hallway and outside of the car, I loiter. I start to tell him that he doesn't have to do this, but he silences me when he says, "You're my daughter. I'm taking you to school. Okay?"

But I'm not sure that it is _okay_.

It's not that I want to push him away; it's just that I'm wholly unused to this. I want things to be suddenly so easy between us, like they were before, but I know it can't be like that. It's just that fear and overwhelming panic I start to feel when the silence drags on just a little bit too long, the downturn to his lips and the sad tinge in his water coloured eyes . . . making me feel like I'm not enough, or that I've done something wrong _(because I'm still not her)_.

I love him to pieces, but I wonder if it's enough.

In the car I glance over at him periodically, but unlike yesterday he doesn't seem so far or out of reach. So when we arrive at school, I tentatively say, "Thanks, dad."

He turns to me and smiles, his eyes softening in the early morning sheen. "Anytime, kiddo."

I shoot him a brief smile before getting out and hurrying up the front steps of the school.

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School is . . . odd.

As soon as I step in, there suddenly seems to be an air of _existence_ around me that wasn't there before. It's not me; at least, I don't think it is . . . I hope it's just paranoia, stemmed from the fact I missed yesterday that's making me sketchy . . . and that people aren't really _looking_ at me.

When lunch rolls around, I hesitate outside of the cafeteria doors; torn between going in and running away.

Deciding to be brave and pulling determination from some not so hollow place inside of me, I push the doors open and step inside.

And regret doing so.

It's not immediate. I manage to get halfway across the hall before I hear my name being called. _Loudly_.

Startled, I lift my head just in time to see glasses situated over dark, kind eyes before I'm barrelled into. I let out an _oomph_ , almost toppling over at the sheer force of her sudden, unexpected hug.

Bewildered, all I can think is: _I've been touched more in these past few days than in . . . forever._

She squeezes me tightly as my wide eyes dart all around, blinking against the onslaught of faces staring back at me.

"Um," I whisper, taking a step back and hoping she'll get the message and release me soon.

Thankfully, she seems to. She darts back as quick as she'd lunged forward.

"Sorry," she whispers back, sending me a tiny smile.

But I'm not really hearing her because I can feel so many eyes looking in our direction, and the pressure behind them is making me feel dizzy and much too light. My gaze darts from Angela's to everyone else's, panic mounting in my stomach and snapping at my spine until I stand painfully straight; unfurling when all I want to do is hide.

I spare Angela a panicked glance before turning around and bolting back out of there.

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I find solace in the empty space of the outside.

I lean up against the cold brick building; my heart thundering like a drum beat in my chest. I haven't been noticed in such a long time that when it does happen all I can think of is to flee – my instinctive reaction to attention, be it good or bad. Hiding is safe and so, so easy, but it doesn't banish the bad feelings; all it does it perpetuate their life span.

Logically I know this . . . but my heart isn't ruled by _logic_.

"Bella."

Wearily, I open my eyes once more to see Angela stood in front of me. Only now her expression is one of . . . guilt?

"I'm, um, sorry about that in there," she says quietly, her mouth forming a grimace. "I didn't mean to . . . to freak you out."

I shake my head slightly, the rough brick hard and unyielding behind me. "Not you," I manage to rasp out. I close my eyes briefly before reopening them. Her stare holds doubt and disbelief so I quickly amend, "Not so much." Pressing my hands against the brick wall – and drawing strength and stability from the fact that it doesn't buckle beneath me I say, "I'm just not used to . . . " I trail off, my hands gesturing pathetically in the air like she might understand.

But then her dark eyes gesture back at me, and I wonder if she just might.

Looking down, I watch her toe the concrete. "Um . . . I just wanted to tell you I'm glad you're okay. Your dad called my mom last night and – "

"What?" I say, my confusion cutting her off. "Why wouldn't I be okay?" And then, something else – "My day called your mom?"

"Uh, yeah," she says, her wide eyes blinking at me, looking so much rounder and bigger behind her glasses. "After you disappeared the other day . . . everyone was so worried." Her expression suddenly turns guilty again. "I didn't notice you were gone until we were back on the bus and heading back to school . . . I told Mr. Banner right away and we headed back to look for you but . . . " She drops her eyes to the floor again, her shoulders curling inward. "I'm sorry."

"That's okay," I tell her, feeling a little stunned, because it is. Frankly, I'm just surprised that anyone other than Charlie noticed at all.

She nods slowly at the ground before meeting my eyes again. "When we got back to school, your dad was there. He . . . I've never seen him look so . . . agitated?" She frowns. "He always seemed so reserved . . . but he looked really cut up about it, Bella."

I bite down on the inside of my cheek – _hard_.

"Anyway," she hurries on, probably at seeing the pained look on my face. "He asked us all when and where we'd last seen you but nobody, ah, nobody had." Her face twists again. "He yelled at Mr. Banner some – or quite a lot, actually . . . " she trails off, before her face transforms into something like a smile. "I didn't know a person could go that red."

I smile back wobbly in response.

"Before your dad left, I told him I'd rally some people together and we'd help look for you. He told me not to worry – that he'd find you – but we went looking anyway."

I blink back at her in astonishment.

"You did?" I ask, my voice almost inaudible.

She gives me a small shrug in response, toeing the ground again. "Yeah," she says, then hesitates. "I was, um, worried about you."

I gape at her. "You _were_?" There's an unspoken _why_ attached to my words, but she seems to hear it.

She smiles at me sadly, her fidgeting coming to a halt. "Just because you stopped being my friend," she says quietly, "didn't mean I stopped being yours."

I don't see her leave, but when I look up from the ground, she's gone.

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The rest of the day passes in a confusing blur.

I don't quite manage to return to my invisibility for the rest of the day – people still stare – but at least no one tries to talk to me.

My brief encounter with Angela has left my brain in a bit of a whir. It's not so much the idea that "everyone" was worried about my disappearance (I was pretty doubtful that that was true), just the fact that someone _other_ than my dad was.

Angela and I had been best friends before, I remember that much. But when we left middle school and entered high school, I was sure we just started to drift apart – as was to be expected, I guess. At the time I had thought it was normal and had accepted it so easily. At the time . . . I had thought we were just fated not to be friends anymore, not that I was fated to be alone.

But so many years later and the reality of it is like a slap in the face. In a way I guess I had rejected her, by rejecting everyone else.

Guilt swarms into me, colouring my insides in lurid shades of dark colours. Thinking about Angela has me thinking about Charlie – her guilty face morphing into his dropped shoulders. Sinking lower into my seat in biology, I wonder at how long I've been inadvertently hurting people.

I want to scream my frustration out into endless streams, imagining it forming long lines of tar on the white classroom floor. I thought by keeping people away, I was keeping myself safe. But my safety seems to come at the cost of hurting the people I care about.

Dropping my head into my hands, I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. Aching, it for once coincides with the pain in my heart.

_I'm sorry_ , I think.

_I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry._

"Bella."

Startled, I jerk my head up so quickly that my brain rattles. I blink for a minute, worried I've been called on to answer a question but –

"Class is over now." At my non-response, he continues, "Are you okay?"

My mouth drops open before snapping shut again. When I finally do manage to form a verbal response, it's comes out as a nonsensical sound.

Turning fully from the board he was wiping clean now, he drops his eraser on the desk, his forehead creasing. "I wanted to apologise for yesterday. As your teacher, it was incredibly negligent for me to have – "

I shake my head quickly, cutting him off. "It's okay. I mean, it wasn't your fault, sir. I was stupid enough to wander off on my own and I'm – I'm really sorry if my dad yelled at you, um . . . " I stumble off, clambering out of my chair quickly. I pull my bag over my shoulder before hurrying to the door. " . . . And I'm sorry if I got you into trouble with the school because it really wasn't – wasn't your fault so please don't blame yourself, um . . . "

I've backed almost all the way out of the room before his voice stops me.

"Bella," he says, his voice sounding oddly parental. His forehead has creased even further. "Don't worry about me. Are _you_ okay?"

Overwhelmed and suddenly so, so tired, I acknowledge his words with a single nod and a small " _I'm fine_ ," before I practically sprint out of there – before anyone else can worry about me.

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"Hey kiddo," dad says as I collapse into the seat next to him. "Good day?"

Turning to him, I try to give him my best convincing smile, but it still feels weak. "Yeah . . . I didn't have P.E. so I only fell over about five times."

My attempt at humour falls flat.

Charlie frowns, opens his mouth to say something . . . but shortly closes it again. His gaze scans my face, lingering on my eyes. But ultimately, he remains silent. Pressing his lips together and sighing, he nods and starts the car.

But I understand. Because sometimes, there's just nothing you can say.

It's simply enough that he's here.

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"How do you fancy a takeout, Bell?"

I peer over the couch at Charlie, already I start shuffling my homework into a pile. "I can – " I start, rising from my crouched position over the coffee table, where I'd started to do my homework. Usually I would have shuffled off to my room as soon as I'd come home, but the idea of all that silence is, for once, _unwelcome_. I don't want to think, and that's all I'll do in the quiet.

He raises his palms in the air, halting my rise. "No ifs or buts," he says, eyes so deep; insistent and pleading.

I nod slowly, sitting back down again.

He smiles and lifts his eyebrows.

"Um," I think. "Pizza?"

"Come on," he says, and his eyes twinkle. "You can do better than that."

His expression thaws some of the rigid muscles in my back, making it okay to relax again. "Pepperoni and mushroom . . . " I venture tentatively, " . . . with stuffed crust?"

"A girl after my own heart," he says jokingly with a wink, before disappearing around the corner.

I stare after him, and when I touch my lips, I find I'm smiling again.

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As I lay in bed that night, wrapped up in my duvet, I stare at my bedside drawer anxiously. I am torn between a deep desire to open it, so much so that it pulses in my chest, speeding up my heart, while a quiet voice in the back of my mind tells me to just leave it be.

Ultimately, my desire – my _heart_ – wins out.

Quickly reaching over, I yank my drawer open. My hand quickly finds what it's looking for.

Bringing it back to me, for a moment I just clasp it between my palms in the dark. My heart is thundering, but I almost can't bear to look. I can feel its silky softness tickling my palms . . . but seeing it will be different. Seeing it might just bring forth another thing I'm not prepared to deal with.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, I close my eyes.

I drag its soft silk up my arm and then my neck, not stopping until I feel it on my lips. My heart is still beating crazily and I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing. But when I breathe in, I can almost imagine that I'm breathing in all that colour, and it's bringing me back, helping me out of my perpetual grey.

I feel less guilt, less pain. It's not all gone – it might never be – but somehow, this single, lone feather makes me feel a fullness that is almost synonymous with peace. And it does it so selflessly, like I'm not stealing misplaced affection . . . but receiving it because it's _mine_.

I fall asleep with burnt orange clutched in my palm.

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